we don't need your headlines
by outruntheavalanche
Summary: [GINNY BAKER AS YOU'VE NEVER SEEN HER: AMERICA'S DARLING BARES IT ALL? blares across the screen in obnoxiously bold, garish red font.] eventual Bawson, prior Ginny Baker/Trevor Davis, background Mike Lawson/Amelia Slater, ensemble PITCH cast.
1. Pregame Warmups

I have no idea where this is going. POVs might alternate, I'm trying to kind of write this like an episode of the show, and the rating may change in the future too. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Title from "Born for This," by Paramore.

* * *

"Oh, shit."

"Damn. Is that _Baker_?"

"Forget Baker, that's _Trevor Davis_."

"Fuck. The Cards' catcher?"

Lawson strides into the clubhouse, a cheerful greeting on the tip of his tongue, when all the mindless chatter trickles to a stop. He pauses, a hand poised over the strap of his bag. In the corner of his eye, he notices Tommy and Stubbs by their lockers, hastily shoving their phones in their stalls. Lawson's mind flicks over the scraps of conversation he'd heard as he pushed through the clubhouse doors and he makes his way over to them.

"What's up, fellas?" Lawson drops his overnight bag on the nubby gray carpet and toes it off to the side.

Stubbs and Tommy share looks, communicating soundlessly with furtive glances back at their lockers before Stubbs sighs, reaches into his stall and pulls out his iPhone.

"We all got 'em," Stubbs says, sliding his thumb across the darkened screen. "Someone must've got our emails off the team site or something. You probably got some too."

Frowning, Lawson reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. He hadn't bothered to check it before leaving for the ballpark earlier that morning. Usually he caught up on his emails, missed texts, and voicemails on the ride over to Petco but the cabbie had been super chatty and friendly, and Lawson had ended up signing a bunch of shit for him in lieu of payment. He isn't sure if he's actually allowed to do that but the cabbie had insisted it was all on the up and up, so Lawson'd just shrugged and gone with it. Now he wishes he'd bothered to check his phone.

Lawson opens his email.

 **GINNY BAKER AS YOU'VE NEVER SEEN HER: AMERICA'S DARLING BARES IT ALL?** blares across the screen in obnoxiously bold, garish red font. Comic sans, by the looks of it.

"What the fuck is this?" Lawson bites out.

"They're…" Tommy trails off at a loss for words, reaching back to twist his fingers in his blond curls.

"Yeah, they're kinda… Like, I mean, they're not, like, bad or anything. Not like Verlander and Upton. But, y'know." Stubbs flushes and lifts a shoulder in a shrug as if to say _What can you do?_

Lawson stares down at his screen and scrolls through the email attachments unseeingly. He taps one and, as it opens, his stomach sinks like a stone.

It's Baker. _Ginny_. Wrapped up in a thin sheet and nothing else, dark curls tumbling down over bare, bronzed shoulders. There's a fine sheen of sweat to her skin and she's smiling like Lawson's never seen her smile before, cheeks dimpled, eyes crinkling in the corners.

His mouth immediately runs dry as a creeping dread crawls down his spine. He shuts his phone down, looks up at Tommy and then Stubbs.

"Get that shit off your phones." Lawson rubs a hand through his beard. "Dammit. Is Baker here? Have you seen her?"

"Nah, man," Tommy says, as he retrieves his phone from his locker and taps at the screen. "Her agent came by, like, ten minutes ago, though. Super hot, blonde hair. Ice queen type."

"She's got a name," Lawson mutters, as he bends down, ever mindful of his aching back and knees, to pick up his bag. "I'll see you guys later."

After shuffling off to his own locker, Lawson sits down and pulls his phone back out. The picture of Baker—Ginny—is still on the screen. Despite the responsible voice at the back of his head—that sounds alarmingly like Amelia Slater—yelling at him to just delete the email and get the pictures off his phone, Lawson scrolls to another. This one's a point-of-view shot from above, aimed at a stretch of smooth, brown skin. Lawson hastily closes the email.

He hears the commotion in the hallway—angry shouts blunted by the heavy clubhouse doors—before he really registers what's happening. Then the doors swing open and Amelia Slater herself storms in, making a beeline right for Lawson's locker. She has her phone in hand, pointed out at Lawson like a weapon.

"Where is she, Lawson? Where _is_ she? I haven't been able to get ahold of her all morning and—did you know about this? Did you—" Amelia's face is bright red, nearly the same color as her tomato-red blouse, blonde hair pulled back into a sloppy bun.

Lawson gets up out of his chair gingerly, reaching out a hand to brace himself against his locker stall. "I haven't seen her yet and the guys say they haven't seen her either," Lawson says, jerking his thumb over in Stubbs and Tommy's direction. "We've all seen the pictures though."

"Fuck. _Fuck_!" Amelia clenches her hands into fists and bangs them against her thighs. "This is bad, Lawson. This is so fucking bad. This will ruin her."

"It'll be fine," Lawson tries, even though he doesn't believe that. He puts on his calming 'mound conference' voice, the one he uses with Ginny after she's walked a couple guys and suddenly she can't command anything in the strikezone. "It'll blow over."

"This isn't blowing over. Once the media gets ahold of this—" Amelia holds up her phone to Lawson so he can see the image of Ginny and the Cardinals' catcher in bed together "—they're gonna have a fucking field day. They'll bury her, Lawson, and you know it."

"Look, the same thing happened to Verlander a couple years ago and nobody even talks about it anymore," Lawson points out, pushing Amelia's phone down so he doesn't have to see the half-naked image of his pitcher or her…ex-boyfriend? Current boyfriend? Booty call? Better not to even go there, Lawson supposes.

"Verlander's also a _man_ who gets paid a hell of a lot more than Ginny," Amelia points out, acid dripping from her words. "He made that scandal go away with a fleet of lawyers and threats of lawsuits. People sympathized with him because he was obviously the victim of a phone hack. You know they're not gonna look at Ginny the same way. They never do. They'll blame her for it. You know they will."

Lawson's stomach tumbles. He fights the urge to argue because he knows Amelia's right. He knows damn well Ginny will get blamed for not being careful enough or, hell, daring to take intimate photos with someone she obviously cared—cares?—about. Of course she'll get blamed.

Lawson's at a loss for words. For once.

Amelia presses a hand over her sweaty forehead. "This is a mess."

"I'm… I'm already on it, guys. And I think I might be able to get the pics off the internet," a nervous voice pipes up behind her.

Amelia turns to reveal Eliot, the social media intern, standing in the doorway, a laptop balanced precariously on one arm. He holds a cell phone in the other and his thumb is moving furiously.

"Obviously I can't wipe people's emails. But I'm trying to trace the source of the leak," he says. "I'll let you know what I come up with."

"Do whatever you can, Eliot," Amelia urges. She turns back to Lawson. "I'm gonna go attempt damage control." She leans in like she means to kiss him before remembering where she is and backing away. "Take care of her, Mike."

Amelia turns and runs out of the clubhouse, Eliot hot on her heels.

Lawson slumps into his chair and rubs his hands over his face.


	2. Top of the First

Just a short chapter with Oscar and Eliot.

Carlos Asuaje is an actual real life prospect. Jorge Danu is not.

* * *

Oscar's in his office going over some scouting reports for a pitcher the team's considering acquiring when he's interrupted by a timid knock on the door.

"I'm a little busy here," Oscar calls out, not looking away from his whiteboard. He plucks a placard with the player's name and number off the board and taps it against his palm as he runs through all his options. He could maybe afford to part with Carlos Asuaje…but Cincinnati would almost assuredly ask for more.

"It's urgent, sir."

Oscar tears his eyes away from the whiteboard. Eliot, the social media intern who manages Ginny's Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat accounts, is standing in the doorway with a cell phone in one hand and a laptop in the other.

"What's the problem, Eliot?" Oscar asks.

"We have a situation, Mr. Arguella." Eliot hovers in the doorway. "Can I, um…come in? Or are you busy?"

"Just tell spit it out, Eliot. I'm in the middle of something here," Oscar says, snapping his fingers and motioning at Eliot to come into his office.

Eliot steps in and nudges the door shut with the heel of his shoe. "Uh, well, long story short, Ginny used to date Trevor Davis of the Cards when they were both in the minors. Well, Davis got hacked. All his personal info, his cell number, his credit cards, home address got posted on a website. Along with…pictures. Of him and Ginny."

Oscar feels all the blood drain from his face and he sits down heavily behind his desk. The tips of his fingers start to tingle. "Pictures?"

"I'm trying to trace the source of the hack. The only thing I'm reasonably sure of right now is it wasn't Davis himself," Eliot says, offering Oscar a nervous smile. "Some gossip site emailed them to all the guys too."

 _Shit_ , Oscar thinks. "Shit." He rubs his hands over his face. "This is not good."

"No, it really isn't," Eliot chimes in.

"Thanks for that invaluable insight, Eliot," Oscar mutters, dropping his hands into his lap. He pulls out his phone and opens up his mailbox. Sure enough, there's an email labeled **GINNY BAKER AS YOU'VE NEVER SEEN HER: AMERICA'S DARLING BARES IT ALL?** sitting in his spam inbox. Oscar doesn't click the attachments.

The placard flutters to his desk. **Jorge Danu #33 RHP Cincinnati Reds**. Oscar sighs. Danu will just have to wait for now. Looks like Oscar's got himself an entirely new jam to wriggle out of at the moment.


	3. Bottom of the First

This chapter didn't unfold quite the way I expected it to. Yay Ginny/Amelia friendship!

Ginny still doesn't know about Mike and Amelia's fling, but that could be added to the mix at a later date.

* * *

Ginny actually considers just…not showing up to the ballpark after she gets a hastily dashed-off text from Trevor telling her some trashy gossip site's finally released the pics. Despite her better judgement, Ginny snatches her laptop off her nightstand and pulls up the site to see for herself.

The first picture hits her like a fastball to the ribs and, for a moment, she gasps for breath as an invisible band squeezes around her chest. The faces of the couple lounging comfortably together in the rumpled hotel bed are hidden from the prying eyes of the camera—they're too busy kissing, hands roaming over one another's bodies under the sheets—and it wouldn't be quite so bad if Ginny's jersey wasn't slung over the foot of the bed with her name and number bared for all to see.

Tears prick at her eyes and her cheeks grow hot with shame. She remembers nearly everything about the night the pictures were taken, remembers how damn happy she was. Trevor'd had good game—he'd hit an RBI double and a triple and Ginny got to see it with her own eyes from the stands—and, afterwards, they went to a fancy Italian place well out of both their pay grades' to celebrate.

Now, the images of her own body, her love and happiness written over every inch of bare skin, is on display for everyone to see. There are people out there, somewhere, pouring over these pictures—pictures neither Ginny nor Trevor intended for anyone else to see—and laughing at her.

Ginny had thought she was done being a punchline.

She slams her laptop shut and throws it across the room. The crunch of aluminum and plastic is satisfying.

Ginny falls back in bed and presses her hands over her face. She can hear her cell phone buzzing on the nightstand beside her bed, but she ignores it. It's been going off non-stop all morning.

Then someone starts banging on her apartment door.

Ginny lowers her hands from her face and stares up at the ceiling. Who the hell let the media into the apartment building? she wonders.

Ginny pulls her comforter over her head and curls into a ball. If she ignores them long enough, they'll eventually get bored and move on to the next hot thing.

The banging, thankfully, stops.

"Ginny," a woman bellows, "it's me. Let me in."

 _Amelia. Oh, thank God._

Ginny throws her comforter aside and hops out of bed.

"I'm coming," Ginny calls out, before racing into the bathroom to throw cool water on her face and attempt to make herself a little more presentable.

After pulling her hair back in a hasty, lopsided ponytail, Ginny goes to let Amelia in.

Amelia swoops into Ginny's apartment and deposits a shiny leather briefcase on the sectional in Ginny's living room without a word. She watches warily as Amelia slips out of her jacket, tosses it over the briefcase, and marches back over to Ginny. Amelia rolls up the sleeves of her dress shirt like she's ready to get in there and get her hands dirty.

"How are you doing?" Amelia asks, reaching out and giving Ginny's hand a squeeze.

"Pretty shittily. You?" Ginny asks, pulling her hand free to wipe at her sore, aching eyes.

The simple, comforting act—Amelia reaching for her hand and squeezing it gently—makes Ginny's eyes sting with a fresh wave of tears, but she isn't going to cry again. She's not. And she's sure as hell not going to cry in front of Amelia.

"We need to come up with a plan," Amelia says, putting her hands on her hips. "I've got Eliot tracing the hack—"

"He can do that?" Ginny asks, as she wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

"Apparently. I guess 'social media guru' is actually in his job description," Amelia says, heading back over to her briefcase. Amelia snaps it open and pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. "I'm going to draft up a statement for you to read—"

"Oh no. No, no, no," Ginny exclaims, holding up her hands. "You're not making me face those jackals."

"Who, your teammates?" Amelia quips, tossing her silky blonde hair over her shoulders. She sits next to her jacket and briefcase and begins writing. "I'll stress that it was Trevor Davis who was hacked—illegally, I might add—and that your intimate relationship with him ended… It did end, right? You're not still…?"

"Fuck, no! It's over and done with," Ginny sighs, pressing her hands over her face. If a hole could open up in the floor under her feet and just swallow her up, that would be pretty grand.

"Okay," Amelia says, pen nib scratching across the paper as she writes. "I'm also going to throw in the specter of a lawsuit. It worked for Justin and Kate, so why not?"

"You sound awfully cheerful for an agent whose only client just had their nude selfies blasted all over the internet," Ginny says.

"Well," Amelia says, drawing the word out to impossible lengths. She lowers the pen and looks up, eyes shining.

Ginny's stomach sinks. "I'm not going to like whatever comes out of your mouth next, am I?"

"Kim K. turned a stolen sex tape into a multimillion dollar empire," Amelia says, shrugging and smiling sweetly.

Ginny sees right through the faux-innocent act though. "No way, Amelia. Whatever empire you think you're gonna build on these pics, you can just forget about it right the hell now."

"Just saying!" Amelia returns to writing out Ginny's official statement. "It was just a thought."

"Turning my nude pics into a multimillion dollar empire is _definitely_ gonna endear me to the twenty-three guys I play with who still aren't quite sure what to make of me," Ginny mutters.

"Twenty-three?" Amelia asks idly.

"Mike's got my back, at least," Ginny says, going over and collapsing onto the sectional next to Amelia. She peers over her shoulder to see what she's writing. "I would never say that, by the way."

Amelia tuts at her and scribbles out the offending sentence. "I'm starting to see where Lawson's coming from."

"What's that mean?" Ginny asks, leaning back and picking a tattered copy of ESPN the Magazine up off the coffee table.

Amelia's head shoots up and she flashes Ginny a deer-in-headlights look, eyebrows nearly climbing off her forehead. "Oh, nothing. He's always complaining about how you shake him off whenever I'm in earshot," she says hastily.

Ginny isn't sure what to make of that response so she just rolls her eyes. "I think he's just trying to play up the grumpy old man shtick," she says, as she flips through the magazine.

"Right," Amelia says, laughing. She puts the pen down and examines her handiwork before ripping it from the pad. "Official statement, officially submitted for her highness' approval." She holds out the piece of paper to Ginny.

Ginny takes it from her and, as she starts to read, she can't help but let out an impressive whistle.

"That good, huh?" Amelia pretends to preen and Ginny can't help but laugh a little.

It feels a little strange to be laughing, especially when her career is possibly in the balance, but it's better than the alternative. And it helps Ginny to know Amelia's on her side. Things are still pretty fucking bad, but they don't seem nearly as awful knowing Amelia and Mike are fighting for her.


End file.
